The Maelstrom

“Our particular talent,” declared Toby proudly. “I must confess I was somewhat pleased to see my companion’s illusion fall a smidgeon short of the smee standard. You see, many have tried to replicate—”

The smuggler cut him off with a pointed question. “Do you ever work on commission, my fine fellow?”

“I—I haven’t,” stammered the smee. “But I … well, I suppose we could arrange something. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?” he added hopefully.

“Very well,” said Madam Petra, sitting back. “One interesting tidbit deserves another, and your friend is most interesting.” Once again she put on the spectacles and called the pinlegs over from where it had been lurking by the fireplace. It responded at once, clicking over the rugs and hardwood floors and climbing atop the desk like some hideous remote-controlled toy. Coming to rest by its tube, the creature settled down in a twitching, salivating jumble of legs, segments, and pincers. The smuggler gazed down at it.

“Prusias will win this war whenever he chooses,” she said softly. “His initial losses to Aamon and Rashaverak are merely drawing them in. Aamon has committed almost all of his forces to the eastern front and Rashaverak has done the same in the south. When the time is right, Prusias will send in his little pinlegs and victory will be his.”

“How is that going to defeat an army?” asked David, peering closely at the creature.

“I don’t know precisely,” replied Madam Petra. “My contacts gave me this prototype as a curiosity, but they said it isn’t ‘paired.’ I haven’t the slightest idea what that means, but my contact joked that if I ever see those little green lights flash red, I’d better run for the hills and never look back. Apparently, it has something to do with the demon that would normally be trapped inside it, but they gave no particulars. In any case, I hear that Prusias is amused by his enemies’ early victories; they’re allowing him to test the loyalty of his braymas and purge his own ranks of traitors. But whenever he chooses, this war will be brought to a swift conclusion. And once Queen Lilith sees the others’ fate, she will race to make a deal and cling to whatever lands and power she can. That will leave only Rowan. My advice is to submit to whatever terms Prusias demands and hope that he indulges Rowan as a vassal state.”

At her command, the pinlegs crawled back inside its tube, whereupon she closed and carefully fastened the lid.

“But the Workshop—” said Max.

“The Workshop cannot help you, dear,” interrupted Madam Petra, removing the glasses. “Without Prusias, they lose their technologies and they would never risk such an outcome. You’re trying to appeal to their sense of humanity, but do you understand that most of their population has never been above- ground? Most have never felt real sunlight or swum in the sea or even met anyone from ‘topside.’ From their perspective, we might as well live on a different planet. You want them to help save the world, but their world is a different one than ours. Furthermore, they recognize and understand something that you do not.”

“What’s that?” asked David.

“You cannot win,” replied Madam Petra matter-of-factly. She gestured at the huge paintings. “Do you know what these are?”

They gazed about at the enormous canvases and their strangely beautiful patterns and splatters of luminescent paint. Max shook his head.

“They’re demons,” said the smuggler, gazing up at each. “Or at least, the remains of demons. Minor ones, of course—gifts from a generous brayma following a medim. If you’ve ever attended such a gathering, you know the demons engage in three types of contests: alennya, amann, and ahulmm. The first two are pleasant enough—beautiful, violent, and familiar. But the ahulmm is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s a performance, gentlemen—the ritual suicide of one who sacrifices his life for the sake of entertaining the audience. As the demon recites its death poem, it spills its life and essence onto the canvas. The demon perishes, but the canvas remains behind as art. If the ahulmm’s performance is admirable, one can almost see the poem and hear the words in the painting. As you can imagine, such works are priceless.”

“And what does that have to do with Rowan’s fate?” asked Max.

“Sometimes a demon will perform ahulmm to honor a debt, but the vast majority are voluntary,” explained Madam Petra. “Think about that for a moment: an immortal spontaneously choosing to end its existence for the sake of an artistic gesture! I’ve seen a four-thousand-year-old rakshasa—a lord of immense standing and influence—perform ahulmm for no other reason than to surprise and entertain his guests. Do you really think you can win against such beings?”

She was smiling at them, sad and bemused as if they were already dead. From far off, they heard a bell ringing faintly in the town. The sound was harsh, a discordant clanging that caused Madam Petra to rise again from her chair and walk to a window along the southern wall. Brushing aside some drapes, she leaned close and gazed back toward the town.

“Good God,” she muttered. “The docks are on fire. Storehouses, too; all that bloody silk going up in flames. What the hell is going on?” Frowning, she strode over to the door and flung it open.

Smoke billowed into the room, thick and noxious. The door must have been soundproofed, for as soon as the smuggler opened it, Max heard shouts and commotion below—a frenzied din of footsteps and shattering glass as though a terrible struggle were taking place on the stairs and landings. Katarina’s voice sounded from the hallway, terrified beyond all reason as she screamed for her mother.

“Where are you?” the girl cried. “I can’t see!”

“Here!” exclaimed Madam Petra, racing into the hallway and snatching her daughter. The child’s hair was singed, her face streaked with soot and tears. Dashing up, Max took hold of the door, peering out into the hallway only to see it filled with oily smoke. There was an appalling crash and a gurgling shriek followed by the sound of rapid footsteps coming down the long hall. Through the smoke, Max glimpsed a hazy, man-shaped form running at the door. He slammed it shut, bracing it with his shoulder as automatic locking mechanisms slid into place. The door trembled as the intruder crashed against it.

“How strong is this?” asked Max, glancing at Madam Petra.

“It should withstand even a pulse grenade,” she said.

Max eyed it doubtfully as it gave a groan and a crack appeared above the frame.

“Is there another way out of here?”

But the smuggler didn’t answer; she had rushed back over to her desk and was pressing a number of hidden controls. As Max watched, the fireplace revolved away, revealing a spiral staircase hidden inside the chimney. Rushing to a small portrait, Madam Petra flung it aside and began working the combination to a hidden safe.

“Take Katarina!” she shouted, gesturing at the secret passage. “I’ll be right behind. I can’t leave my jewel —”

She broke off, coughing as smoke and hot ashes started pouring into the room from various vents. Several of the drapes began to catch fire. Katarina screamed as the door shook again. Plaster cracked and fell from the walls to shatter on the floor.

“Grab that!” Max yelled to David, pointing at the metal tube. Snatching up Toby, David hurried over to Madam Petra’s desk and scooped up the pinlegs. “Can you put out—”

The room erupted in machine-gun fire.

Hundreds of bullets sprayed the chairs where Max and the others had been sitting only seconds earlier, splintering the chairs and embedding themselves in the floor and walls. Several struck a metal sculpture and ricocheted about the room, shattering lamps and tearing canvases. At first Max thought they were under attack, but he realized the guns were part of the room’s defenses.

“The controls are malfunctioning!” yelled Petra. “Stay down!”

Max dropped flat to the floor as guns continued to belch forth a stream of bullets. Every second or two, he heard a lethal ping! as a bullet struck metal and ricocheted. Beside him the door trembled, groaning and shaking as their assailants tried to bludgeon their way in. Its reinforced frame was bending, warping inward and allowing great torrents of heat and smoke to pour in. It would not hold much longer.

The firing stopped as quickly as it had begun; they heard a staccato click-click-click as the hidden weapons ran out of ammunition. Max was up immediately, rushing over to Madam Petra, who had abandoned the safe to shield her daughter.

“The passage leads to the roof,” she gasped. “There’s a—”

Katrina shrieked as a grappling hook shattered a nearby window and snapped back to anchor in the sill. Max